James Grippando - Found money

The drive back to Norm’s house seemed to take forever. Ryan rode in the passenger seat, venting. Norm was behind the wheel, just listening. Ryan wasn’t criticizing his friend. He was more critical of the process.

“It’s totally bizarre,” said Ryan. “One minute Judge Novak is threatening to throw Jackson in jail, the next minute he’s throwing us out of court.”

“I see that kind of posturing in criminal court. Judges are always threatening to hold the prosecutors in contempt and throw the case out. It creates the illusion of fairness before they stick it to the defendant. Whenever I hear that nonsense, I know my client is in for a nice long all-expenses-paid trip to Club Fed. I guess the same holds true in Family Court — though at least you’re not in jail.”

“That’s the irony of it. Brent is the one who should be locked up. Instead, he and Jackson are buddies.”

“There’s no doubt in my mind that Brent put Jackson in the hospital. But somehow — probably through his FBI contacts — Jackson must have found out about the three-million-dollar bank account. Big money has a way of healing old wounds. They’ve clearly cut a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Jackson probably gave him two choices. One, Brent could help Liz get her share of the money. Or two, Jackson could bring the FBI down on Brent’s head and make sure he spends the next three to six years in jail.”

“You think Brent told them about the two million in the attic?”

“It’s possible. Jackson was very careful with his questions. He didn’t get too specific about the amount of the money, where it was kept, whether it was cash or in some other form. When it comes to money, he knows he’s not helping his client by raising a red flag for the FBI or the IRS. He doesn’t want to kill the proverbial goose that lays the golden egg.”

“I can’t believe Liz would be part of this. She never even liked Brent.”

“He’s all she’s got. Look at it from her standpoint, Ryan. You never told her about the money. She had to hear it from her lawyer that your father had three million dollars in a foreign bank account. And she may not like Brent, but she may very well believe his story that you hired someone to beat up Jackson. To top it all off, your father gave her the combination to the lock. Don’t you think it’s natural she’d feel a little entitled?”

Ryan shook his head. “That combination just frosts me. I don’t understand what my father was trying to do.”

“What’s to understand? Your old man loved Liz. Honestly, I think he felt sorry for her going way back to when you went away to college and left her behind in Piedmont Springs.”

“Dad was the one who talked me into leaving her. I told you that story, didn’t I? My dad’s very sophisticated hot-wire analogy. Once you’re grounded, never grab another.”

“Maybe he felt guilty for giving you bad advice.”

“Or bad metaphors.”

“Whatever. The bottom line is he wanted you and Liz to stick together. So he told you where the money was, and he gave her the combination. He was forcing you two to work together.”

“Except he screwed up. He didn’t scramble the tumblers after he closed up the briefcase. It was still set to the combination when I found it. It opened right up.”

“So, his intent was clear. The execution could use some work.”

Ryan glanced out the window. “A lot of work. What do we do now?”

“This hearing is a lost cause, so I don’t want to submit an affidavit from you. Jackson was attacked while you were in Panama, so the only way to oppose Brent’s testimony is to account for every minute of every day while you were there. It makes no sense to pin you down under oath with the FBI snooping around.”

“So you’re just going to let the judge rule?”

“I’ll call Jackson and try to negotiate an agreed order for the judge to sign. Something that makes no finding that you actually were responsible for the attack, but nonetheless says you agree not to get within a hundred yards of Jackson or your wife for the duration of the case.”

“Wonderful. For years Brent has been abusing my sister, and now he’s the key witness who gets a restraining order against me.”

“The order might not technically protect Brent. Just Liz and her lawyer. But my advice to you is to stay clear of your brother-in-law anyway.”

“I will,” said Ryan. “Just as soon as I break his friggin’ neck.”

Jeanette Duffy came home from the beauty shop around two o’clock. It was her regular Saturday ritual. She pulled the car all the way up to the garage, toward the rear of the house. A light rain sprinkled the walkway to the kitchen door. She dug out her keys and took small, quick steps up the stairs, trying to save her hair from the weather. She aimed the key for the lock, then froze. The glass panel on the door was broken. The door was already unlocked.

Jeanette scurried down the stairs, spurred by fear. She yanked open the car door and jumped inside. Her hand was shaking so badly she could barely insert the key. Finally, she got it in and raced out of the driveway.

The dirt road was slick from the rain. The car fishtailed in a mud puddle, but she regained control. A hundred yards down the road was the McClennys’ farm, her closest neighbors. She pulled in the driveway and ran to the front door. Mr. McClenny answered.

“I think I’ve been robbed!” she shouted. “Can I use your phone?”

McClenny seemed stunned for a half-second. No one ever got robbed around here. “Sure,” he said as she opened the door. “It’s right in the kitchen.”

“Thank you.” She hurried through the living room and grabbed the phone. She started to dial the police, then stopped. It suddenly occurred to her that this could be another chapter in the feud between Ryan and Brent — a family matter. Maybe Ryan had threatened to burn the money again, and Brent had come looking for it.

She dug in her purse for the number Ryan had given her — Norm’s house. She dialed nervously. Norm’s wife answered and brought Ryan to the phone. Her composure broke at the sound of her son’s voice. “Ryan,” she said, sniffling. “I think we’ve been robbed.”

“What?”

“Our house. I think somebody broke in. The window was broken on the back door.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Did you see anybody?”

“No.”

“Where are you now?”

“At the McClennys’.”

“Good. Stay away from the house, Mom. Go stay with Sarah. No, on second thought, Brent’s on his way home. Can you just stay with the McClennys a few hours?”

“I think so. I’d do the same for them.”

“Okay. I’ll leave now. I should be there sometime after dark.”

“Should I call the police?”

He thought for only a split second. “No,” he said firmly. “Don’t call the police. I’ll be home tonight. I’ll handle it.”

Amy phoned several times Saturday, only to hear that Marilyn was unavailable. She left messages, but a return call never came. She knew Marilyn was back from Washington, since the local news had photographed her stepping off the airplane at Denver International Airport on Saturday morning. By four o’clock, she could wait no longer. She laid it on the line to Marilyn’s housekeeper.

“Tell her I’ve been contacted by the FBI,” she said. “I must talk to her.”

Within twenty minutes, Amy had a call back. Marilyn sounded less concerned than expected. She was actually apologetic.

“I wasn’t avoiding you, Amy. It’s just that everything’s been a whirlwind since the announcement. I must have received a thousand congratulatory phone calls in the past twenty-four hours.”